


Weekend at Malcolm's

by Endangered_Slug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Belle making rash decisions is totally cannon compliant lbr, But he's trying, F/M, Father issues like whoa, Romance, Sometimes Gold doesn't make the best choices, non-graphic mentions of cremated remains, rcij, soul searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endangered_Slug/pseuds/Endangered_Slug
Summary: They say you can never go home again. But, sometimes, home finds you.Robert Gold, successfully entrenched in his new life in the States, is called back to Scotland in order to deal with the disposal of his father’s remains. Long estranged from his father and his home, Gold wanted nothing more than to just dump the ashes and leave, but a timely encounter with a woman named Belle helps him come to terms as Gold spends the most meaningful weekend with his father, Malcolm.Pinch hit for the 2018 RCIJ.





	Weekend at Malcolm's

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was started months ago and the idea for it has been several years in the making. There are parts of it that are a bit personal for me -- I won't tell you which, but I will tell you that writing it has been a catharsis of sorts. I had 8000 words down before I got the bat signal for a pinch hitter. Fortunately, the prompt fit the story and I managed to finish it up. Annnnnd now, onto the show!

 

**The Hobbit is Forced from his Hole**

 

It was the heavy accent that tipped Gold off that his world was about to change before he even heard what the man had to say. Gold hadn’t heard such a comically thick Glaswegian accent in well over a decade let alone have any chance to speak with it, and, to his amusement, it took him longer than it should have to recognize the guttural speech as real words.

So, when the solicitor called at eight o’clock in the morning and told him of his father’s passing, Gold’s puzzled silence was met with condolences.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Gold. Truth be told, we had a hard time tracking you down all the way over there in Maine. You’re far from home.”

“Aye, it’s a wee bit far,” Gold conceded, his own accent thickening at the slightest bit of contact from the old country. He’d been living in the States long enough to have toned down his own accent to a more socially accepted brogue. Having done his damnedest to shake off the shackles of his old life in any way he could, the accent was the first thing to go. It was strange how quickly it came back. He looked at the clock out of the corner of his eye, watching the second hand slowly tick its way around the dial, barely listening as the solicitor droned on about a great man and time served and mistakes atoned for and a full life. Half of it probably wasn’t real and he seriously doubted that the solicitor had ever met his father while the old man was conscious. If he had, Gold wouldn’t be hearing about last rites-- as if Malcolm believed in a higher power -- or a vague synopsis of how the man lived during his last years -- badly and on someone else’s dime. Gold only snapped out of it when he was asked about when he could pick up the ashes.

“I beg your pardon?” Gold asked, suddenly aware of the waiting silence.

“Mr. Campbell’s ashes. They need to be disposed of as well as the rest of his, er, estate.”

Gold held the phone away from his ear and stared at it incredulously before placing it back. “You’re telling me that _Malcolm Campbell_ died with money in the bank? Are you sure you have the right person?” It had to be some other Malcolm Campbell. The name was common enough for there to be a mix up. His father was either still kicking around or he’d disappeared under mysterious circumstances and no one bothered to look for him.

The other man coughed politely. “Er… No, no money. He was on disability when he passed.”

Gold rolled his eyes. He doubted his father legally qualified for any sort of benefits, but he would bet good money he gamed the system somehow. He’d have bet even more money on the odds that Malcolm was single-handedly responsible for the new austerity measures that recently went through the UK.

The solicitor went on, “But his flat will need to be cleared of his effects. You’re the only one with authority to do that.”

A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed right behind his right eye -- the beginnings of a stress headache that would take weeks to get rid of. Maybe he would be lucky and have a stroke and wouldn’t have to deal with this mess. “Can’t you just, I don’t know... tell them I said they can bin the lot?” he ground out, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye, trying to squeeze the pain away.

The solicitor was silent. “And Mr. Campbell’s remains?” he asked timidly, reminding Gold of his duty.

And that was how Robert Gold found himself four days later sitting on a plane bound for Scotland, a plastic cup full of cheap whiskey clutched in one hand while his other held the armrest in a white-knuckled grip, cursing the day he’d answered the phone.

After his last disastrous filial trip home, Gold had sworn never to set foot on Scottish soil while his father was alive and he’d made good on that promise despite the occasional collect phone calls with pleas for money or the even fewer occasional flying monkeys sent via email by some well-meaning but misguided dupes who thought Malcolm’s son was the worst sort of human to abandon his father during his hour of need.

Anyone who took up for Malcolm Campbell was either in on a scam with him or too stupid to live. There was no in between. He hung up on every one of them and blocked the numbers for good measure.

The plane ride was long and Gold’s thoughts kept drifting back to his old life growing up and how his dad made it his favorite game to humiliate his son at every opportunity. Pointless memories that nagged at him until he wanted to snap and hit something just to relieve the pressure building up inside him. But the only thing to hit was either the drinks cart or the tired woman serving the drinks and Gold needed alcohol more than he needed to break his fist on something. He’d gone over his childhood during endless sessions with his therapist and Gold _thought_ he’d moved on, but now, with one phone call, they were dredged up like bodies popping up in a lake and the hurt renewed with interest due.

Gold twisted in his seat, unable to sleep and unable to distract himself with the stupid happy thoughts Archie taught him to use as a coping mechanism. It worked five years ago. Now that he was facing his past? Not so much.

His father was dead, there was nothing the man could do to Gold now. All that was left was to clean out the flat, dump the ashes in a bin somewhere, and go back home to Storybrooke.

Plus, he fucking hated flying.

* * *

**The Den of Sin**

 

The library was quiet, but the kind of bustling quiet that soothed rather than unnerved. There was a soft hum of background noise as Gold walked in: the humming of the printer, the zipping sound of the photocopier, the soft murmur of people talking, the excited lilt of a volunteer reading to a group of enthusiastic children just on the right side of model behavior. People milled about in ones and twos, studying or using the free computers, the sight of which surprised Gold. They were old, clunky things and probably slower than molasses in January, but their mere presence told him that crime had gone way down in the city. At least in that neighborhood. The sound of a rolling cart came from the stacks on his right -- librarian doing her duty, which was also a nice change from the old days.

It was a happy place now. No longer the den of sin it had once been.

Gold was surprised to see the old place looking so alive. Back when he was a lad, the library was mostly deserted with broken, boarded up windows and moldering books leaning on sagging shelves.

The library had been renovated, that much was clear, but the layout was the same. Circulation desk in the front, children’s area to the left, periodicals and reading nook just beyond that and the toilets in the back. The right side held the rest of the reading selection, such as it was. He was amused to see a small DVD collection among the rows -- he didn’t know people still used physical media. There was obviously more money going towards the library now, but it was slim pickings. Light streamed in through the small windows up front which someone had partially covered with tissue paper -- poor man’s stained glass. The effect was good though. Wherever the light hit the floor there was a bright pattern of colorful sunshine It practically made the old place look like a cathedral -- provided you didn’t look up. Whoever had gotten ahold of the place had loved and scrubbed every inch of the building until it shone and, in doing so, had performed a small miracle worthy of St. Mary’s.

He shoved a hand in his pocket, fingering the small plastic baggie inside, his heart beginning to beat faster at the thing he was about to do. It was ridiculous, really. He should have just dumped the ashes in the nearest trash receptacle and flown back home. He’d meant to do just that. But, when the solicitor handed over a small envelope and a key and the heavy box that contained the ashen remains of Malcolm Campbell, Gold had lost his resolve. The man was no real father and he was a poor excuse for a human being, but he didn’t deserve to be tossed out like trash.

That was how Malcolm treated people. Not Robert Gold. He’d made it his life’s work to be the exact opposite of his father in every way possible and that is why, instead of being safely on the next flight home, he found himself face to face with an irritated librarian glaring up at him.

Caught, his heart stuttered to a standstill, then sped up in double-time.

She was short. Tiny, even -- which was a pleasant novelty for him since most women seemed to tower over him by inches given his own diminutive stature -- wearing a bright orange wrap dress with red circles printed on it and lizard green heels and Gold wondered in that brief moment if she was colorblind or just hopelessly fashion adjacent. She had a lovely, heart-shaped face framed by a mass of soft curls that brought out the stunning blue of her eyes and that is where his brain needle-scratched.

Her eyes were the color of a warm summer sky, bluer than anything he’d ever seen on a human -- outside of a Disney movie at least, and they pointedly went from his face down to the floor where he’d left a trail of ash leading from the front door to the toilets.

Oh. Well, shit.

“Problem, Miss?” he said, playing it off, his fist clenched around the baggie in his pocket. He must have ripped a hole in it somewhere along the way. There was probably a bit of Malcolm Campbell scattered all along the sidewalks from his hotel room to the library. Nothing the rain wouldn’t wash off with the rest of dirt that coated the city.

He probably had bits of Malcolm Campbell all down his leg.

Gold’s stomach turned at the thought.

“You tracked in _dirt_ , sir,” she said, lifting an arched eyebrow at him. Gold was surprised to hear an Australian accent come from those pretty pink lips of hers. The pretty pink lips that were currently turned down into a frown that was more adorable than stern and he swallowed the urge to laugh in her face. It would have been rude. Besides, she was right, he _did_ track in the dirt after all. Only it wasn’t dirt.

He tsked shaking his head lightly. “Very dusty place. You ought to hire someone.”

He turned away, not missing her offended gasp as he scurried into the loo. He chose a stall at random and locked the door against anyone following him in, then, he dug the baggie out of his pocket and sprinkled the ashes into the toilet.

Gold watched, feeling a both ill and relieved, with a small amount of giddiness thrown in for good measure as he watched the gray water swirl down the pipe. He’d tried to think of something to say. A thought or a poem or just _goodbye_ , but there was nothing to say to an empty toilet stall in the back of a library where his father once gambled rent money away. He’d turned to wash his hands off, relieved that the first baggie was disposed of so quickly. Truth be told, he’d been nervous as hell at the idea, but now that it was over… The water in the bowl filled back up, just as dirty and gray as if he hadn’t flushed at all.

Fuck. Gold looked back towards the stall door, but no one was there waiting on him. He flushed again, waiting impatiently as the water drained then slowly refilled, still gray and gritty.

Another flush, more impatient foot tapping, more gray water limning the bowl in a grimy ring.

Ten flushes later, Gold left the toilets with damp hands and a sweaty brow -- residual guilt for wasting so much water -- stopping short as came face to face with the same librarian, this time her look of irritation was replaced with one of deep concern.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with worry and her cheeks rosy with embarrassment, but she bravely asked him, with all the tenderness of a preschool teacher, “Are you...feeling okay, sir?”

His own face flushed, all too aware of what she meant. He’d just spent forty-five minutes in the toilets, most of which were spent hastily flushing. She must have heard it all plus the occasional ‘aw fucks’ which were thrown in for good measure. He glanced behind her and noticed that the trail of Malcolm had been swept away.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m fine, Miss. Just, ehm, taking care of some business.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head slightly as if trying to place his accent. “I see. Then do you need some water, or…”

Her eyes were really unfair. A man could get lost in them if he let himself do… just… tha-

“Sir?”

He blinked himself out of his stupor. “Sorry. Sorry. A bit jet-lagged. What were you saying?”

She tilted her head at him, curiosity mingled with concern written along her face. “Should I call someone?”

“Nope. Fit as a fiddle, me. I’m just gonna go…” Damn it, he looked in her eyes again. Big mistake. A distant memory pinged in his brain. It was a cartoon with the giant hypnotizing snake in it. Scared the crap out of him when he was a kid. Had a man-eating tiger and a scrawny boy and a bear. The boy was Mowgli -- he remembered that much -- and the snake was Kaa, with the mesmerizing stare that could render a man helpless until the life was squeezed out of them only to be devoured head first.

“Who are you,” he breathed.

She held out her hand, all business. “Belle French. I’m the head librarian here. And you are?”

Unthinking, he pulled his hand from his pocket and shook her hand, marveling at how strong her grip was. How tiny her hand was compared to his. How adorable she was as she looked him up and down, taking in his suit and the shine of his shoes. “Robert Gold. I used to live nearby…” His voice trailed away as he remembered to his horror that his pocket was still filled with ashes and his hand was covered with it. His hand, which was holding hers. Her hand, which was now smeared with Malcolm Campbell’s ashes.

It might be considered biological warfare in some countries.

Oh, _god_. He should have just dumped his father in the closest dustbin on the way to the airport like he’d planned.

She jerked her hand away, her face scrunched up in disgust. “What _is_ that?” she bit out, wiping her hand on the skirt of her dress

He stammered out an apology. “I’m so sorry, I forgot that was in my pocket. I have no excuse. That’s… well, that’s my father.”

She stared at him, mouth hanging open in disgust. “Your _father_?”

“Yes.”

“Is on your hand?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“ _How_?”

Gold squeezed his eyes shut and wrinkled his nose, trying to think of anything that would explain the circumstances. Some magical words that would get him the fuck away from this situation. Sadly, all he could think of was the truth. “He died.”

“I get that,” she muttered at him. “What I don’t get is what you’re doing with him _here_ and why is he on me?”

“The library was…” Gold hesitated. “Important to him. In a way.”

Important in that no one ever went in, the old librarian was prone to drunkenness, and the back rooms were a literal den of sin where one could gamble and deal drugs and turn a trick whenever one wished. No one cared for the small boy waiting in the front, surrounded by dilapidated shelves and ripped books. He taught himself to read out there in the front, letter by letter, word by word. Not that his father was impressed by it. Malcolm just thought it a waste of time, reading. A waste until it turned useful.

Gold shoved his hand back into the dirty pocket, balling it up into a tight fist until his nails bit into the flesh of his palm. He refused to fall down that rabbit hole again.

She looked over her shoulder before turning on him, snapping him out of his memories. “So what is this then? You’re disposing of him? _Here_?” Her voice raised two octaves until her own patrons were shushing her.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear in embarrassment, and Gold, interested in every small movement of hers, followed it with fascination. He’d been so enthralled by her eyes that he barely even noticed her hair until now, which was just crazy seeing as how there was so much of it curling about her face.

Gold licked his dry lips, as he gradually remembered how words were formed. “He didn’t give any instructions and this seemed fitting,” he said after a moment..

“What? Flushing him down the _toilet_?” she hissed in a loud whisper, crossing her arms over her chest.

Gold just stared at her, matching her eyebrow lift for one of his own. “I looked it up before I started. It’s more of a don’t get caught type thing.” As if flushing someone’s ashes was the most reasonable action in the world.

She huffed out in exasperation, unfolding an arm to gesture at the bathroom. “But _I_ caught you. Just now.”

He smirked, delighted now that they were on the slippery slope of technicalities. _This_ he could do all day. “Technically you didn’t.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. “I did.”

“Did you see me do anything?”

She let out a short huff of impatience. Another three seconds and she’d be stamping her foot at him. “No, but--”

“Then I did nothing wrong,” he said mildly, enjoying the way her mouth worked as she tried to come up with a rebuttal. It may have been mean of him, but he really needed the emotional break.

“So you’re just gonna dump him in the toilet a cup at a time?” she asked, appalled.

Gold paused, his shoulders sagging. “Look, Miss French, I can’t explain my relationship with my dad. Let’s just say it wasn’t close.”

She just looked at him for a moment, her mouth open in exasperation and eyes wrinkled in confusion. “What did you say your name was?”

“Robert Gold.”

She shook her head. “I’m not local, but I’ve never heard of anyone around here by that name.”

“I left a while ago. Live in the States now.”

“And your father was?”

“Malcolm Campbell.”

Understanding dawned on her face and her entire demeanor shifted from curious angel to suspicious bunny in an instant. “I have heard of _him_.”

Gold let out a sharp, bitter chuckle. “Yeah, I bet.” There were probably still warning signs in every shop in the city about his father.

“I didn’t know he had a son,” she said, curtly.

He inhaled sharply, his laughter cut short. “No surprise to me,” he said, with practiced indifference. It wasn’t like Malcolm had ever truly acknowledged him to his face. He was always “Boy” or “You” or “Cunt” unless willing women were to be had and then he was “Son” or maybe even “Rabbie” if the woman was an official of some sort. Gold didn’t know his first name was Robert until he was made to go to school.

Miss French deflated, shaking her head helplessly. “Yeah, no, I did meet the man. Once,” she added tightly.

He grimaced. One meeting with Malcolm Campbell was enough to cause anyone to lose hope in humanity. “I can only apologize for anything he did or said or stole.”

“It was a book,” she said, as if, of all the crimes that Malcolm perpetrated, stealing a book was the worst of it all.

To Gold it was just one of many items his father pilfered during his lifetime, and he was gently charmed that Belle French was so put out by the act that she remembered, not only the man, but the item stolen. He was only mildly surprised that his father would bother stealing a book from a place that loaned them out for free. The man probably stole it just for the thrill of taking something that didn’t belong to him. It was like a tic. Malcolm truly couldn’t help himself, even while he was helping himself.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably before dropping it in haste again, grimacing with the realization that his hand was still filthy and now he’d have to do a full on Silkwood shower in order to feel clean again. “I, ah… Okay, I still have to go through his things. I’ll take a look to see if the book is there.”

Belle French’s lips pressed together as she studied him, her sky blue eyes doing their thing on him until he could feel himself leaning towards her -- a gravitational pull into her orbit that could only end in his explosion into a billion stars. Or prison.

She took a step back and he blinked himself out of his trance. “What are you d-doing?” she stammered, her face flushing a brilliant pink.

He straightened up with some effort, recognizing why he had been feeling so dizzy in the first place. It wasn’t Belle’s magical ability to make him lose his head, he was _famished_. “I’m sorry,” he apologized for the fifth time. “I got off the plane and went straight to the solicitor’s.”

Her face cleared in understanding. “When was the last time you ate?”

He closed his eyes, feeling himself sway alarmingly until something strong clamped itself around his bicep to hold him steady. He peeled his eyes open and looked down to see Belle’s hand on him, her fingers gently pressing into the wool of his suit. The clean hand, the one he hadn’t defiled with his father’s ashes.

“Um… Left New York at eleven forty-five pm, six hour flight put me in at about eleven-ish this morning, went to solicitor’s office to pick up Dad and his house key, went to the hotel to drop off my things, then came here…” He looked at her, guilty. “Yesterday morning before I left for the airport.” The airport which was six hours away from his home.

Belle’s expression cleared, but the concern was still there. She loosened her grip on him, rubbing her hand along his arm in a soothing manner. “No wonder you’re acting loopy. Come on, I have a snack in my office.” She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him after her.

Gold followed her footsteps until then turned the corner and he was faced with a rusty memory of dripping pipes and braying laughter. He _swore_ he could hear the ghost of dice rattling against the wall, soggy cards being shuffled, and the sound of a girl crying as she sold her dignity for drugs for the first time. He could hear _himself_ calling out endlessly for his papa that it was time to eat. Time to sleep. Time to _leave_.

Gold stopped in his tracks, pulling away from Belle as she reached a closed door. Gold knew he was being ridiculous. Knew that whatever had happened in the library before was in the past and that the building as it was today was a place of happiness and learning, but, as he stared down the hallway, now brightly lit and with colorful posters of Jane Austen quotes hung on its walls, he could only smell the rank odor of stale urine and cheap alcohol and drugs cooking. His ears were stuffed with the echoes of memories he didn’t want to relive.

He couldn’t walk down there. He couldn’t. His feet felt nailed to the floor and his stomach dropped as he stared his past in the face. He’d make an emergency appointment with Archie just as soon as he got home, but first, he had to go. Away. Anywhere would do as long as it wasn’t _here_.

“I, uh, I think I’ll just grab something at the chip shop rather than put you through the trouble.”

Belle looked at him in askance, her brows knit together in a tight knot of worry. “Are you sure? You don’t look like you’ll last another four minutes.”

He shook his head and backed away into the stacks where the memories weren’t as _immediate_. “I’ll be fine,” he told her with a wavering smile. He meant it. He was always fine, eventually. But he would be hanged if he walked down that hallway. “I’ll send the book if I find it.”

It was her turn to blink at him, her blue eyes gazing at him owlishly. “I forgot about that for a moment. How will you know which one is mine?”

Gold shrugged. “It’ll be the only one there I’m sure.” He paused as he turned away from her, being kept upright through sheer determination. “I’m, ah, sorry about earlier. The ashes, I mean. I didn’t think about, well, I wasn’t thinking,” he explained.

She shook her head at him. “That’s okay. I think I get it.”

The smile on his face felt like plastic. “I really, _really_ hope not.”

* * *

**The Pit of Despair**

 

The air outside was crisp against his heated skin, immediately wiping away the stench of memories that followed him out of the library. Gold stood outside the vestibule, gulping down the fresh air like a man just released from a death-grip. He was wrong before, Belle was not the boa constrictor. She was mesmerizing, no doubt about that, but she wasn’t the thing squeezing the life out of him.

It was himself.

He let the air cleanse his thoughts, just as Dr. Hopper had taught him, breathing in the clean air, blowing out the foul, repeating to himself, “I am not him... I am not him...” until he felt a sense of calm once more envelop him. It was just a band-aid fix, nothing more than a plaster over a broken bone, but it would hold until he got away from this place. In the meantime, he did what he’d always done, which was tamp everything down into a tight ball and lock it away.

Gold turned away from the library and began his trek back to the hotel to wash up before going to find something to eat. He remembered there used to be a curry take away not far from here and he hoped it was still in business. It was impossible to get a good curry back in Storybrooke and, now that he was here, his mouth was watering in anticipation. Bouncing on his feet at the corner, waiting for the light to change, he was startled out of his thoughts when a soft voice called out to him.

“Mr. Gold, wait!”

He turned back to see Belle French running out of the library with a burgundy beret perched at a jaunty angle on top of her head, shrugging into a faded houndstooth coat as she jogged closer. She caught up to him, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “Hey!”

“Miss French! Hi. Um... Hey.” He stared down at her in astonishment. Neither of them spoke for a moment, each eying the other with wary interest. Then, after a beat, “Are you following me?”

She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “I was getting off anyway and I really don’t think you should be left alone.”

Was that so? He didn’t believe it for an instant. “I can assure you I didn’t steal anything.”

She looked at him, her head cocked to the side as if he was speaking Klingon. “What?”

“Nor do I plan on stealing anything,” he continued, smiling softly. It was so strange -- he already felt better now that he was out of the library. Human. Important. Now that he saw her in the fading light of the day, he could see that she had red highlights to her hair and that her skin was just as creamy as it looked inside underneath the fluorescents. She was wearing ridiculous green heels, but she was still inches shorter than him, which was a pleasant novelty, a tiny treasure all wrapped up in crazy circus colors that shouldn’t have worked, but, on her, they did.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, calmly. “I mean… You looked a bit spooked back there. And you nearly fainted from hunger,” she reminded him, pointedly.

He was kind of hoping she’d forget about that. “Oh, I’ll be fine. There’s a place up the street l…” He petered out, turning around a bit to get his bearings, then he pointed in the other direction. “Up _that_ street. I’m actually happy to have the chance to try it again before I go back to the wilds of Maine and their stodgy lobster dinners.”

She scoffed, looking up at him as she wound a mustard yellow scarf around her neck in a careless manner. “Lobster is stodgy?” she asked with a disbelieving smile.

“No, it’s actually nice -- if you like lobster. But it’s pretty easy to come by where I live so it’s just another menu item. They put it in their macaroni cheese you know,” he said, enjoying the way her mouth puckered at the thought.

The light changed just then, signalling that it was safe to walk and he raised a finger to an imaginary hat in salute and joined the crowd in the zebra crossing. He was only mildly surprised to find her hot on his heels, holding onto his elbow as they threaded their way through the oncoming crowd.

“So you fled Scotland only to land in Maine?” she said, loudly to be heard over the throng. “Of _all_ the places you could have gone in the world? Also, you’re going the wrong way.”

“Hotel first, food second,” he told her with a warm smile. Then, just to keep her from being bored. “Maine is nice when it’s not snowing.”

She actually snorted. “It snows, like, nine months out of the year there.”

“Not that bad. What about you? You left the sunny climate of Australia and wound up in soggy Glasgow? What, did you throw a dart and go to wherever it landed? You’re lucky it didn’t hit the north pole.”

She glanced at him curiously then checked the time on her phone. “It was something like that,” she muttered. She bit her lip in thought before putting the phone back into her purse, looking up at her surroundings once more. “Well, whatever the reason, we’re both in Glasgow now and we’re both starving. I don’t suppose any of your old friends are still around?”

“God, I hope not,” he replied cheerfully.

“Then let me come with you until I know you won’t keel over into the street.”

They were at another crossing, the gathering crowd of pedestrians growing by the minute as people left the shops and headed home from work. Gold took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The truth was, he would love the company. Belle seemed like a nice person, full of compassion when she wasn’t bristling over tracked in dirt. It seemed a shame to turn her down. Especially when she looked at him like that. Like… like he mattered to her. He could refuse her nothing if she kept that up.

Belle French was dangerous.

“You’re just after your book aren’t you?” he teased, smiling down at her out of the corner of his eye.

She rolled her eyes, taking off her beret and smacking him on the forearm with it. “Yes. I’m after the book. That’s the only thing in the world I care about ever.” Her voice was light, but with a tinge of bitterness coloring it was if she’d been accused of loving nothing but the written word before.

He plucked the hat from her fingers, giving her a playful warning look before placing it down on her head again, spreading it out over her mass of hair. Her loose curls were soft against the backs of his fingers and he had an urge to pull one -- a curl, not a finger -- just to watch it bounce.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, not for the first time.

“I’m fine,” he lied, with a smile.

The hotel was small, but clean and his room was just off the elevators on the fourth floor. He let Belle in with a rueful look, apologizing for the mess he’d made.

“I just sort of threw things in while I got ready.”

“Yes, I can see you are a downright slob,” she said, dryly. “Look how horrible you left this place.” She spread her arms out like a game show host, but there was a playful smirk trying to emerge on her lips.

“I thought librarians are above sarcasm,” he teased.

“We all have our faults,” she replied, the smirk coming out in full now. Belle looked around at the unopened suitcase lying on the bed and the very opened box of ashes on the desk. A box of plastic baggies was opened next to it with a suspiciously dusty plastic cup obviously taken from the coffee service. He’d done his best to clean up any ash that spilled, but he’d been in too much of a hurry to do a thorough job.

“How many have you filled so far?” She peered at it curiously, putting her hands behind her back as if the urge to play with it was almost too great to handle.

“Just the five. I couldn’t stay in the room any longer, I had to get out--” He clamped his mouth shut and turned around, unable to finish the thought. He couldn’t explain the trapped feeling that overcame him while he was sectioning out his father’s ashes into equal portions. It came on as suddenly as the thought of staying long enough to dispose of the man properly. All he knew was that he had to act on that feeling, so he had. Took off down the street with a cup of his dad in a poorly sealed baggie in his pocket. And look where he wound up -- with his own personal librarian. Someone who obviously felt that he wasn’t capable of being alone. The worst of it was, he suspected she was right. He was a disaster at the moment. He didn’t know if he could survive the weekend let alone the night.

With a sigh, he went to his suitcase, unzipping it. He pulled out some clean clothes, barely noticing what it was he was grabbing, then, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure Belle wasn’t looking, snatched a pair of underwear, tucking it out of sight underneath the pile folded haphazardly over his arm as if he was twelve years old instead of a grown-ass man of forty-one. Malcolm was all over his suit now. He’d take a quick shower and change before heading out. He could buy her dinner at the very least. Then he’d pay for her taxi home before he came back to his hotel where he’d sleep for at least twelve hours.

She glanced at him, a rueful smile on her lips. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

He stopped short in the bathroom doorway, staring at her. “Come again?”

“Your dad. I understand that he wasn’t the best… person, but he was still your dad and I’m sorry. About--” she waved her hand at the ashes.

He stared at her, speechless. “I- Thanks.”

“Seems so odd that an entire human could fit inside such a small box,” she said in a wondering voice. “That right there is all one person. Minus a cup or two,” she said as an afterthought.

He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Well, our side of the Campbells aren’t all that big. Makes sense that the box isn’t all that--” He gestured with his hands, feeling all the world like the world’s shortest idiot. Why did he feel the need to bring attention to his height? He’d been mocked all his life over his scrawny stature and now here he was highlighting his flaws for her just on the off chance she missed them.

She looked at him oddly, tilting her head at him, which seemed to be a habit of hers now that he noticed it. She was like a collie trying to decipher the strange noises he was making all the while waiting for him to figure out that Timmy was trapped in the damned well.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Again.

Gold felt his heart twist, an aching, burning sensation that left him momentarily breathless and he could only stare at her while he processed this new feeling. He wanted to say no, in fact, he wasn’t all that okay, but it hit him just then, why this whole interaction had him off-kilter. Belle cared. He’d heard about people who cared about strangers -- had read about them in feel-good articles in the paper or online, but he’d never actually met one before. Not one like Belle, who had no agenda or mission or quota to fill. And yet, here he was, standing in a hotel room with some kind of guardian angel who seemed to genuinely be concerned for him without any ulterior motive. They’d only just met, he’d made a mess of her workplace, smeared his father’s ashes on her hand, and was, he had to admit, an emotional wreck. But, still, she chased him down out of pure kindness and he wondered how had she survived in this city for so long without completely losing herself.

“I’m fine,” he replied as if the revelation that his heart hadn’t completely turned black had never happened. “Just… It’s been a strange day.”

She looked him over critically, as if detecting the half-truth, but since she didn’t know him all that well, she couldn’t exactly call him out on it. “I can only imagine what you’re feeling,” she said, her eyes softening in sympathy.

Unfortunately. Gold cleared his throat. “Uh...” He gestured to the bathroom with his arm full of clothes. “I’m just gonna… clean up. The ashes sort of got everywhere.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Did you want to use the facilities first?”

“Hm? Oh. I’ll just wash my hands. I’m pretty sure the rest of me is Malcolm-free.”

“I’m still very sorry about that.”

“That’s fine. It’s not like you make a habit of it.” She paused, wrinkling her nose in thought. “You _don’t_ make a habit of it do you?”

He blinked at her owlishly, then smiled a bit ruefully. “I only have the one dad.”

 

*****

 

Malcolm had a tiny flat in an old estate that should have been torn down decades ago. Gold had never lived in this particular building when he was a lad, but he'd been in similar ones during the times he had a roof over his head and, when he escaped, he hoped never to set foot in one again.

The walk up to his father’s flat was just as grim as Gold anticipated. The lift didn’t work of course and they had to use their phones in order to read the graffitied walls as they trudged up the stairwell. The trash, and its accompanying stench, littering the landings was more than enough to have them scurry up the flights until they reached the fourth floor, and Gold wasn’t certain if a large, bumpy mound was a person or just bags of garbage tossed out of the way -- experience told him that he did not want to find out. The fire door gave a rusty groan as Gold pulled it open with some effort and it stayed open as if too exhausted to close by itself. The hallway was just as repellent as the stairs, but thankfully better lit. At least they could see the squishy bits of carpet to avoid. Someone at the far end of the floor had Countdown on at full blast as a community service to the rest of the floor as there was a very loud row happening midway in one of the apartments.

It was supposed to be a quick in and out job. He brought an empty box with him in the off chance he found something worth donating, a carton of garbage bags, and a can of disinfectant. He would be keeping nothing, he’d just go through Malcolm’s things looking for anything that might be important and then give the landlord permission to toss the whole lot. The entire process should take an hour - tops.

He sprayed the doorknob with the disinfectant for a full minute before touching it. The artificial scent of lemons assaulted his nose like a barbed hook, but at least the harsh chemicals masked the smell of old fried fish that lingered in the grotty hallway carpet. Tamping down the urge to kick the door in like the police, he took a deep breath and walked in with all the anticipation of a timid kid entering a haunted house.

“Huh,” Belle said, standing on her tiptoes to look over his shoulder into the dark entryway. “I half expected it to be booby-trapped after all of that.”

Gold snorted, shaking his head even though he’d had that same creepy sensation upon unlocking the door.

Someone had left the blinds open and the thin light that managed to pierce through the film of dirt which encrusted the windows shone feebly on a sparsely furnished room,. Switching on the lights didn’t help matters as the walls were a dingy yellowish brown from the years of smokers who had occupied the rooms. Under the small window was a ratty floral couch topped with a pile of stained bed pillows that had lost all of their cases as if Malcolm couldn’t be bothered to go to bed. A crate turned on end with a wooden board placed on top served as a coffee table into which it looked like Malcolm had stuff all his used lottery tickets through the spaces. An interesting filing system that Gold doubted had ever seen the light of Pinterest. The couch faced an enormous television that was too big for the space and which probably cost more money than a month’s rent. It was probably stolen. An overall odor of rotted food permeated the room and to the left, Gold could see a miniscule kitchenette with dishes piled in the sink which had been awaiting a washing up for weeks. There were two more closed doors just off the kitchen, the washroom and the bedroom.

“Yikes,” a soft voice said behind him and he silently agreed with her. Yikes.

Gold stepped into the room carefully as if he expected the carpet to suddenly roll up with him held tightly in its clutches, but one look around the place and he relaxed. He’d never been in these rooms before, there was nothing recognizable to him here. In short, there were no memories here to seize hold of his brain to demand his attention and Gold felt a perceptible weight lift from his chest leaving him feeling as if he could relax for the first time since he’d gotten that phone call.

He took a deep breath, then immediately started coughing, the dinner they’d wolfed down along the way threatening to make a second appearance. There would be no getting anything done with the kitchen in such a rancid state.

“Um… where did your father, er… where did he pass away?” Belle asked softly, coming around to peer at the stained pillows on the couch.

“Not here,” he replied tersely, banging at the window lock with the heel of his palm, trying to get it to turn. “He died in hospital.” A few more wacks and one hell of a bruised palm later, and the latch turned. Gold tugged the window up with a groan and breathed in deeply. “That’ll help with the smell a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s… I’m surprised no one came round to clean up after he died.”

Gold shrugged. “They’d have cleaned out rather than up. You want it?” he said, nodding towards the TV. “Movie nights at the library or you can just take it for yourself. I don’t need it.”

Belle looked at it, her nose wrinkled up in distaste. “It’s not that I don’t like TVs in general, I just really don’t need anything so….” she held out her hands. “Massive. And it would just get stolen in the library eventually,” she added with a rueful smile.

“Somethings don’t change do they?” he quipped with a raised brow.

“You wouldn’t want to sell it?” she asked, her head doing that tilting thing again. Gold wished she would stop, it was making him feel as if the world had shifted and he was the only one not facing the right way.

“Too much work. Even if I could get anything out of it, I don’t want to stay any longer than I have to.”

She took a deep breath, coughed politely, then said in a tight I-absolutely-regret-doing-that voice, “Well, the library thanks you for your generosity. I’ll have some forms sent over so we can legally sell it.”

“Don’t do that. Raffle it off. You’ll make more money that way.”

Her brows lifted in amusement as she considered that. “That’s an idea. But it’s so large, I doubt any of our patrons would be…” She trailed off when she caught his expression. She smiled at him, slowly. “You were pulling my leg,” she accused though there wasn’t even a question in her tone.

“A bit. But it’s a good idea, the raffle. I’m sure you could use the funds.”

“Do we look that poor to you?” she asked, this time not nearly as amused as before,

Gold crossed his arms over his chest, both defensive and a bit chilly standing next to the open window. Still, a few goosebumps were a small price to pay for fresh air. “I don’t know of any library save for a handful that aren’t poor. The one in my town is closed,” he told her casually.

She goggled at him, her eyes widening in an alarming manner before choking out, “C-closed? They _closed_ it? Who closes a library?”

“People who don’t want to pay for a library,” he said, simply. “So, now it’s just sitting there. All those books gathering dust and no one can even go in.”

It was as if he’d broken her. Belle stared at him, open-mouthed trying to process what he’d said, but he could tell that it wasn’t registering completely. He wanted to laugh because her expression was undeniably horrified, but he felt that would be almost cruel so he pushed himself away from the wall to brave the elements in the kitchen, leaving her to realize that the world wasn’t a Disney movie full of singing vermin and princes in disguise.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The dishes in the sink wasn’t nearly as crusty as he’d thought upon first impression. They were just the normal breakfast things that you expect to find on any given day. Malcolm certainly hadn’t planned on dying, so he left the dishes to wait. And, truthfully, if Gold knew he was going to die on a given night, doing the washing up was the last thing he’d think about. The odor was coming from the dust bin, and that was easily remedied by closing it up and hauling it out to the hallway where it could wait until they were finished. He wouldn’t toss it in the stairwell like the other tenants, but there was no reason to keep it in the apartment. Then he rolled up his sleeves and got about tidying up a bit, the soft clinking of the few plates and utensils soothing his mind a bit after the long two days he’d had. He stared at a watermark that was left on the wall over the sink, wondering how it had gotten there and why it was left when he focused on the bowl in his hand. He nearly dropped it in his shock, but he gripped it tightly in his sudsy hands and brought it up close to his face. It was a simple design, but distinct and Gold knew his antiques pretty thoroughly. The blue stem and flowers were not as elaborate as other patterns from the region, but, then, not everyone liked to dine off of pictures of pheasants or seventeenth century courting lovers. He turned it over to check the mark and cursed as he saw the familiar manufacturer’s name under which “Limoges, France” was stamped in a thin gold script.

“That son of a--” he muttered to himself as he checked the cupboard for the rest, getting a bit of foam on his cheek in his haste, to discover a treasure trove in porcelain sitting on the sagging shelves.

Not finding a towel nearby and too impatient to bother searching for one, he dried his hands on his tie then began carefully removing the dishes onto the counter, counting each piece as he went on, the mental tally ticking ever upward with each complete setting. He’d just reached the teacups (Never had he seen his father take so much as a sip of tea before) when Belle, whom he’d forgotten in his haste, slammed the cupboard door shut in front of him, narrowly missing his nose.

“How can your town close the library?” she seethed. “How does that happen?”

Gold fumbled the cup in surprise, but it slipped through his fingers and it tumbled down, bouncing off of his foot and onto the cracked linoleum with a muted chink.

The effect was immediate. “Ohhhhhh no, I’m sorry,” Belle said, her ire forgotten as she stooped down to pick it up. She cradled it in her hand, the cup mostly intact save for a nasty chip along the gold-plated rim. “Well, it’s chipped, but it’s still usable…” She took a closer look at it. “This is actually pretty,” she murmured, surprised to find something so delicate in Malcolm’s place.

“It’s stolen,” he replied, testily.

She stared at him opened-mouthed. “How can you be sure of that?” she asked, finally.

“Look at the mark.”

Belle glanced at the pattern on the cup, confusion written on her face. “Not exactly willow ware is it?”

“On the bottom of the cup. It’s the manufacturer, or, more likely, the company who ordered it, and the region in which is was made.”

Her mouth formed an O as she understood finally.

“So you think he stole this. From where?”

No idea. It’s an old pattern, but easily traceable. Someone trusted Malcolm a bit too much I’d wager.”

Again with the Lassie look. It was becoming quite the habit with her.

“Traceable…” she mused. “So, this is valuable?”

He heaved a sigh, looking at all the pieces stacked up on the counter. “If it’s a full set and they’re in good shape … you’re looking at about twelve hundred dollars.”

“Oh god, and I made you drop it! I’m so sorry!” She handed the cup to him with shaking hands, her eyes welling up with tears that threatened to spill.

He took it from her gently and thumbed at the chip. It was really a nasty wedge that had been knocked out, but the cup was still intact. He looked up at Belle. “It’s just a cup,” he told her, setting it down in the sink with a muted clink. “It’s just a thing. Not important.”

She sniffled a bit, and wiped at her eyes with the side of her hand. “Sorry. Sorry, I know it’s stupid,” she began.

“You’re not stupid for your feelings,” he told her. “It fell and it broke. I imagine the people to whom this belonged would be happy to have it back no matter what shape it’s in. Look,” he said, pulling out a platter from underneath a stack of salad plates. “This has been cracked clean in half at one point, but you can tell where it’s been expertly repaired. This wasn’t something someone did with super glue. Malcolm wouldn’t have taken the time to do that, he’d have chucked it in the bin. A chip is just another chapter in this cup’s story. And if we can find the piece, we might be able to fix it.”

She gave a muffled chortle, shaking her head at him helplessly, but he could tell that she was already feeling better about it. She was breathing better, her shoulders relaxed as she studied the rest of the service his father had pilfered.

“This is a lot for just one person,” she muttered almost to herself. “What do you think he meant to do with it? Sell it?”

“Probably just took it because he could. It’s worth a lot, but it’s distinct so he’d have a difficult time selling it with no questions asked.”

She looked at him again, eyes narrowing. “And how do you know so much about plates, sir?” she asked archly, but her eyes sparkled with amusement now that her mini-crisis was over.

He gave a self deprecating shrug. “I’m an antiques dealer. I’m no real expert with china, but I know the real thing from the reproductions. I could probably find the owner in a few hours if I was at home with my contacts, but it’ll take me a day or two here.”

Her face scrunched up as if she’d stepped on something slimy. “Seriously? Antiques?”

“Is that so hard to believe,” he asked, bristling.

“No, it’s just...I thought you were a lawyer or, I don’t know, a banker or something.”

“I don’t like sitting behind desks,” he replied, tersely.

She hummed, glancing up at him quickly before turning her attention back to the china, a faint blush staining her cheeks until Gold was wondering what, exactly, she’d been thinking.

“Still, antiques is interesting,” she said after a moment’s silence.

“I always thought so.”

She leaned against the doorway, her slight frame blocking his escape route. “So what’s the most interesting thing you’ve found?”

He didn’t miss the fact that she deliberately didn’t ask what the most _valuable_ thing he’d found was. No, she said interesting. As if he dealt in pirate’s maps or haunted salt cellars on an everyday basis -- neither of which had ever happened, but they would qualify as interesting wouldn’t they? It occurred to him, as he stared at her in mild shock, her blue eyes trapping him more effectively than blocking the doorway could, that the most interesting thing he’d discovered on his own was Belle herself. Belle French -- who was definitely not a thing nor an antique, but a librarian in a city far from home, with her Crayola-colored outfit and her large heart too good for the likes of him. Definitely top of the interesting list, but he’d be twice damned if he told her that.

He cleared his throat dragging his eyes away, but they were drawn back as if they were connected by a magnet. “We’ll, I’ve just discovered a stolen nineteenth century service for twelve in a housing estate in Glasgow. That’s pretty interesting wouldn’t you say?”

Her mouth twisted in a funny way as she tried not to smile at him. “Yes,” she said seriously. “It is interesting. I can only wonder at where he keeps the silver because it’s certainly not here.” (the cutlery had proven to be either plastic from take away places or the thin, bendable pieces one stole from cafeterias) Her smile broke through at last and Gold felt warmed all over. Smiling suited her, he thought absently as he gazed at her in wonder.

Yes, definitely the most interesting thing he’d found.

He blinked away rapidly, feeling like a sleeze for staring at her like that. Belle was very sweet to help him through this whole Malcolm thing -- especially when they’d just met and he’d dirtied up her floor.

He stood on his tiptoes to check if he’d missed anything, but the cabinet was finally empty. He blinked and suddenly he was nine years old again with an aching stomach. He remembered vaguely that he hadn’t eaten at all that day or the day before except for some table crackers he’d pilfered from some street vender. He’d come home from school to a house as empty as the cabinets, hoping his dad had bought food, but of course there was nothing -- there had been nothing in them for at least a week. He’d carefully torn out strips of the margins in his school book and eaten them supper that night. Breakfast was the same. He’d catch hell at school, but he was hungry enough to not care at that point.

Gold quickly shut the door with a hollow bank, reminding himself that he had already eaten and he didn’t need to raid the pantry and hide what he’d found before his father stumbled home. That was a deprivation he’d never have to go through again. Malcolm was dead and Gold was safe.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

He turned around, startling to see Belle watching him carefully. “Hey.” He’d forgotten she was there.

She eyed him warily. “Hey. You okay?”

He nodded.

“It’s just that you kind of went away there for a moment,” she explained, twisting her hands together into tiny finger pretzels.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I kind of did.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He shook his head giving her an apologetic smile. “It’s nothing. Some things bring back memories, you know?”

Her fingers dropped finally as she gave him an understanding smile. “Yeah. I get it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Gold wondering what he was going to do with himself when she went back home and he was left with his memories, when he remembered why she was with him in the first place.

“So,” he said, his voice loudly breaking the silence. “Your book.”

Her eyes focused on him. It seems she was staring off into space. “Hmm?”

“Your book,” he said, nudging past her to the lounge. “Why you’re here isn’t it?”

She said nothing as she followed him out of the kitchenette and into the lounge. It was patently obvious that there were no books in that room. Nor were there any pictures or artwork of any kind. Just the large TV and the grungy couch and makeshift coffee table. He opened the door on the left to find a laughably minuscule bathroom and shut it hastily.

The bed was just a ratty mattress on the floor, but surprisingly neatly made up with a faded comforter that looked as if it had once been used as a dog blanket. A step stool served as a nightstand and there was a cup on top with a bottle of pills next to it. Gold idly picked it up to examine the contents -- high blood pressure pills. He dimly wondered if it was a genetic condition or the result of bad living and made a mental note to see his doctor when he got back home. Malcolm had eventually succumbed to a heart attack, proof that the man actually had one, which was the greatest bit of irony Gold ever heard of. He set the bottle back where he’d found it A tiny closet was filled with a few tatty boxes and clothes of good quality because Malcolm was a hustler and always dressed to impress. Dressing well was probably the one trait Gold inherited that he liked. He wasn’t going to keep the clothes but thought someone would appreciate them and so he began to take them off the hangers, methodically folding them up before stuffing them into a garbage bag. He’d ask Belle which charity was the best suited for them and have the lot sent over.

His movements became jerky the longer he worked at it, and Belle, who’d come in to help him, touched his arm to get his attention.

“You’re doing it again,” she said softly once he’d startled out of his reverie. “You’re lost in another world.”

He refused to meet her eyes, only balled up the shirt in his hand and shoved it into the garbage bag before yanking another off the hanger. All these good clothes, the expensive electronics, the china worth thousands of dollars moldering away in the kitchen, and Malcolm still lived like squalor and starving was the only way. The man had his priorities all wrong. Always had.

“Smells like him,” he said gruffly and, before he realized what was happening, she quietly took the shirt from him and set it down. Moving at a glacial speed, her eyes never leaving his face as if she half expected him to bolt at any second, she slowly wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close.

He froze, wondering what the daft girl was up to when it dawned on him that she was hugging him. Hugging. Him. It’d been so long since he’d been hugged that he’d actually forgotten what it felt like. He seriously needed to work on his interpersonal skills.

Gradually, in case she changed her mind, he brought his hands up and let himself hold her -- gently, as if she would break if he applied any pressure, but Belle pulled him in even tighter holding him until he finally relaxed against her, nearly boneless with relief at the touch of another person. He didn’t know he’d missed it, this connection. So simple and innocent and necessary that he wondered how he’d stayed human for so long without it. It felt good. Soft. Warm. Like he mattered. A burning sensation struck low in his chest, surprising him with the sudden emotion. It was utterly overwhelming and his lungs felt too full as if they were going to pop at any moment. He held his breath trying to suffocate the fire, but instead of dampening, his eyes began to prick with tears

Belle squeezed until he rest his head on top of hers, her face squashed against his chest and he knew that must have been uncomfortable but he couldn’t make himself let go and she wasn’t complaining, so he closed his eyes and breathed her in, the scent of roses filling his nostrils instead of the lingering memory of Malcolm’s aftershave.

Gold didn’t keep track of how long they stood there with his arms wrapped around her, but as suddenly as it happened, it had ended, He pulled away first, outright embarrassed at the way it had affected him and he turned away, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his jacket sleeve.

Belle said nothing, just continued to fold clothes while he composed himself in the corner for which he was grateful. Finally, after spending some quality time examining a watery splotch on the wall near the ceiling that somewhat resembled a melting lemon, he awkwardly cleared his throat and faced the room once more.

She glanced up at him with a warm smile as she kept on with her folding and Gold, not wanting to dive back down that rabbit hole again, thought he should get on with any other personal things Malcolm left behind.

His father wasn’t sentimental so the shoebox half-filled with old photographs surprised him. There were a handful of him as a child, a bit spotty and folded in corners, but there were also some that he had no recollection of at all. He settled down on the edge of the bed to flip through them. He set a few aside, not recognizing anyone in them, and put the ones of his childhood and a few known family members in another pile. Those he’d keep. He paused at each new one, trying to remember the circumstances behind them, but as is the case with a lot of murky memories, he didn’t know for sure if he actually remembered them happening, or if he’d just heard so many stories that they were embedded in his brain until it just seemed like he remembered them. There was one where they were standing outside one of the housing estates they stayed at on a temporary basis, his smile looking more confused than carefree even at the tender age of four or so. Another from around the same time where he was sitting on Malcolm’s shoulders, his eyes squinting into the sun. And then he found something that made him smile -- they were sitting along the edge of a lake, him standing on a bench with his dad next to him, the perpetual unkempt face actually beaming proudly while his father’s friends surrounded them. He remembered that day. It was one of the good ones where it seemed everyone took a holiday from being reprobates and decided to take a trip to Kilmardinny Loch, dragging him along and several lady acquaintances that seemed to revolve in and out of their lives. He tried fishing for the first time there. Hadn’t caught a blasted thing of course, but it was nice being tended to and instructed on the fine arts of casting. Daft Olli did the actual fishing and he was as patient as anyone could be expected. Of course the day ended with Big Mike getting arrested due to rude behavior to a swan, but even that couldn’t put a damper on Gold’s memories. He remembered everyone treating the arrest as a big joke instead of a grand injustice that usually accompanied their inevitable incarcerations. He smiled a bit to himself, naming everyone he could remember in the photo.

Malcolm’s pals were the sort of folk little old ladies called the cops on at sight. Young mothers crossed the street with their babies rather than walk past certain harassment. Grown men would hunker their shoulders and shove a hand down their trousers to keep a tight hold on their wallets. Didn’t always work -- grown men with wallets were fair game. As was anyone else.

Looking back now, there were quite a few blokes with “big” in front of their names. Big Mike, who was enormous with a dark horseshoe mustache and a can of cheap beer in his meaty hand, and Big Jake who wasn’t big per se, but had a habit of exaggerating certain anatomical features which no one believed. And there were a few that were nicknamed with the last object they were hit with - presumably in a fight. Tony The Brick. Jimmy The Cat. Al The Shovel.

Then there was his own dad, who had a running set of aliases depending how interested the police were in questioning him. Malcolm The Joker, Malcolm the Runner. Malcolm the Coward. Malcolm The Deadbeat.*

And now he was Malcolm The Stiff.

It was Jimmy the Cat that brought the squashed packet of Maltesers to the lake, pulling it out of his pocket like a magician. The sudden memory floated up from the deep recesses of his mind and Gold chuckled as he remembered opening the bag for the first time and his nostrils being frontally assaulted with the scent of malt chocolate. He’d swallowed half the bag and gone on a near rampage from the sudden sugar rush. And, now that he remembered that part, he also remembered that it may have been his fault Big Mike had been arrested in the first place after Big Mike had to pull him off the back of one before he got his neck broken.

Gold had forgotten all about that.

He felt the mattress dip as Belle sat close to him, peering over his arm to look at the picture in his hand. “How old were you there?” she asked, taking it from him gingerly, tracing the edge with a delicate finger.

“I don’t remember exactly. Maybe eight?” He flipped through a few more photos, sorting through them a bit faster now that he knew she was watching -- he’d already lost it in front of her a couple of times, he didn’t want to perform a hat trick.

“You were cute,” she murmured, smiling up at him. Did she mean to sit that close or was it gravity pulling them down toward each other on the soft mattress?

“Yeah, well, I grew out of that fast enough,” he said, making light of it, enjoying the inevitable ‘tsk’ that followed.

“You don’t really look like him you know. Malcolm.”

He ‘hmmed’ a bit. “Take after my mother so I’m told,” he told her absently, keeping his eyes on the box in his lap. He fished out a tarnished key dangling from a gummed up ball chain, which he pocketed.

There was a pause while he sorted through another batch of photos then Belle spoke again, “And, uh, are you still in contact with her?”

Well, why not tell her every sordid detail of his life? She was already becoming entrenched in it. He swallowed hard, then, “No, she, ah… she left when I was a baby. Don’t remember her.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. His mother’s abandonment didn’t hurt nearly as much as Malcolm’s neglect.

“You got the shit end of the parenting stick,” Belle said at last.

“I really did, didn’t I?” he said mildly before they burst into the hysterical laughter you can only achieve after maximum emotional stress. Gold laughed until his sides ached and Belle was practically draped oh his shoulder, her tiny arm wrapped around his back as she held herself up. And then, when they’d laughed their fill, it stopped just as suddenly as it’d begun.

Belle pushed herself off of his back, wiping at her eyes as tiny laughing aftershocks came bubbling up one after another until they were finally done. They both sighed deeply, then Gold’s attention was caught by the next picture, that of his dad standing in front of the pub he was thrown out of the least and he looked over at Belle, eyes lit with excitement. “D’you want to get a drink?”

* * *

**A Scotsman and an Australian Walk into a Bar**

 

He had second thoughts the moment they stepped inside The Tilted Kilt. He’d hoped, against all odds, that the pub had had some kind of transformation like the library. That, perhaps, new owners bought the place and cleaned it up a bit, but as it turned out, it was exactly the same. The same dark wood paneling, the same sticky floor, and the same backs hunched over their beers sitting in along the bar that was lined with bottles of alcohol.

The same…

No, Gold realized, after blinking his eyes to get used to the murky lighting, it was literally the same backs. He’d have bet his left foot that it was Big Mike sitting in the same spot he’d always sat in, his shirt stretched tight over a broad back that looked like it had spent the last decade traveling outwards in an attempt to gain as much space as humanly allowed. So if that was Big Mike then to the left of him would be Barney, who’d spent more time in jail than out usually for violence. He was beginning to regret bringing Belle to this place. Hell, he was beginning to regret bring _himself_ to this place.

Belle looked up at him in askance as he stopped short just inside the door, his arms held out stiffly in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked, looking from him to the room and back. “Is this the wrong place?”

“No…” he said, barely moving his lips. “It’s the right place. Just some old faces is all.”

“Oh.” She looked around, still mystified. “But that’s okay, yeah?”

“Depends on their mood and if they feel like robbing you or stabbing you.”

Her eyebrows disappeared into her hair. “What?”

Of course that was the perfect time for Big Mike to look up from his beer and catch sight of Gold in the spotty mirror behind the bar. Gold saw Mike do a double take before turning around on his stool, nudging Barney beside him. Barney looked up with a disgruntled curse, but Big Mike nodded his chin in Gold’s direction and Barney’s head swiveled on his thick neck until he caught sight of Gold blocking the doorway with Belle at his side.

He squinted at them before his eyes lit up with something that would have been glee on anyone else, but on Barney’s pug face, it looked more like he was relishing the idea of rearranging Gold's face. To the back. “Well, if it ain’t little Rabbie Campbell. Where the _fuck_ you been, boy?”

The entire lineup turned around then and Gold identified no less than three others of the old group mingled in with a few faces he didn’t know. He supposed the rest were either in jail or dead or maybe some of them even went straight as weird as that sounded at the moment. They stared, their eyes collectively moving from him to Belle and back again, sizing him up. Gold felt the weight of their stares  And here he was with a pretty woman on his arm, a wallet full of cash, and carrying a canvas grocery sack full of his dad.

Belle looked at Gold, her nose scrunched up in confusion. “Wha--”

Gold sighed deeply. They were in for it now. He’d only wished he’d taken Belle home first. He nodded at them politely, flashing a nervous smile before wedging his way in between Big Mike and a woman he didn’t know, setting his dad’s ashes on the bar with a dull thump. “Evenin’.”

Belle scooted up next to him, her side pressed up against his as if they were glued together.

A hand walloped him on the back almost sending his forehead crashing into the edge of the bar. He stopped himself just in time “Good to have you home, Rabbie!”

He looked blearily at Mike. “Hey.”

Big Mike glared at him with beady black eyes, his face looked as if someone had formally introduced it to a frying pan sometime in the last twenty years. His nose had a squashed in look of having been broken one too many times than his nasal bones could withstand and his jowls had that hangdog effect that only old age and binge drinking could bring about. “Took yer time gettin’ back,” he said, his voice like gravel, mouth bent in a permanent twisting scowl. Gold was kind of sad to see that he’d shaved his old horseshoe mustache -- he seemed naked without it.

Gold shrugged. “Had things to do.” He raised a finger at the bartender, who immediately poured him a beer with more froth than liquid, but he knew better than to complain, then turned to Belle to ask what she would like when he was shoved aside with a rough hand.

“Who’s this then?” Barney asked, his eyes alight with glee. “Yer wife? Ya got married and didn’ tell us?”

Gold choked on his beer, spraying it over the canvas bag in which his dad rest. Someone pounded him on the back as he coughed and sputtered, his eyes watering as he glanced up at Belle, her face scarlet s she looked back at him in horrified amusement.

“No, that’s not-- She’s not--” he began, needing to disabuse them of that idea, but his tongue refused to form words -- the shock was too great.

Belle, however, seemed to have no fear for her safety because she simply thrust her tiny hand into Barney’s giant paw and shook it firmly. “I’m Belle,” she told them, deliberately leaving off her last name. “And you are?”

Barney gave a quick round of introductions, while Gold recovered feeling in his toes. They went quick and, though there was no way Belle would never remember who was who, he was mildly surprised at how many of the old gang were there.

“An this ‘ere’s Gibblet, an Norbert, an’ over there’s Big Jake (watch ‘im, miss, puts ‘is ‘ands places ‘e shouldn’t), and right ‘ere,” he declared with pride, putting his arm around a bashful looking man of about twenty, “is my boy, Squidgey,”

Squidgey had his father’s same weak chin and shock of pale blond hair. His face was almost as red as Belle’s shook his hand, his shoulders hunched over as if trying to disappear. “It’s Geoff really,” he mumbled.

Gold shook his hand feeling dazed. “Your Barney’s boy? Really?” He didn’t know if he was more surprised that anyone had procreated with old gangster or the fact that the man seemed proud of the resulting offspring.

“All my life,” Squidgey replied with a roll of his eyes. He wandered away to the other end of the bar where he sat down and pulled his phone out of his back pocket, fingers flying over it. Clearly he wasn’t interested in socializing with his dad’s friends. Gold thought that was the highest sign of intelligence displayed so far.

It was surreal, this overwhelming welcome as if they genuinely missed him. The same people who, when he was a wee child, delighted in teasing him until he broke into hysterics were utterly delighted to have him back in their midst again. The same man who laughed as he dangled a seven year-old Rabbie head first out of a third story window was now the proud father of Squidgey. Norbert, who once stabbed another man in the neck for breathing loud was ordering a round in celebration of his homecoming. It was unreal. Had they all been replaced by pod people?

“So, you back for good?” Big Mike asked in a low voice.

Gold blanched. “No, just to, ah, just to settle Dad’s estate.” Every word felt like a foreign object in his mouth and he ordered a whiskey to get the acrid taste out.

“‘S a sad, sad day when yer da’ died,” Big Mike told him mournfully. “He owed me fifty quid.”

Gold sighed to himself, keeping one eye on Belle and the other on Big Mike. He felt the beginnings of a headache with the effort. “How about I get the next round then?”

Dust fell from the ceiling as everyone cheered.

Three rounds later and Gold was just beginning to relax. Belle, a small glass of something amber and sinister in her hand, her face flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the room, was at the other end of the bar chatting away with Shorty. She looked like she was having a splendid time being surrounded by thieves and charletains. Indeed, she looked as if there was no where she’d rather be than right there at that bar talking to someone who had three teeth and a chronic wheeze. She would glance over at him every once in awhile, her blue eyes sparkling and he would remember every time she did so that he never corrected the misconception that they were married. It was a tiny, little, insignificant, non-deliberate lie. Not even a lie, an omission of truth. An untold fact. A none-of-their-business matter.

He stood at his chosen spot at the bar, his eyes never leaving Belle as he listened to Big Mike with morbid fascination describing his latest attempt to go straight. Seemed this time was lasting longer than others now that his own son had a baby on the way. “I cannae miss the wee thing growin’ up. Needs ‘is Gramps!”

The idea of Big Mike as Gramps settled on his brain like a tick and he called for another round.

“So,” Gramps said after the resulting cheer died down. “How’d you meet the missus?”

Gold’s drink stopped midway to his mouth, his mind already halfway to tipsy had forgotten that tidbit. “The… Oh. Belle? We, ah, we met at the library.”

“A smart one! You did good, lad. Always knew you had it in you,” he bellowed, pounding him on the back in congratulations for marrying above his station. “Ain’ bad on the eyes neither,” he added, taking a gulp of his warm beer before slamming it back down on the bartop. The bartender silently replaced it with another. Big Mike’s hand gripped it instinctively. “Got any plan for disposin’ of the, er, the, ah… remains? Gotta send him off righ’.”

Gold eyed the simple canvas tote he’d brought, sitting right there next to the row of empty shot glasses and beer mugs and realized with startling clarity  this was the first time in his life he’d ever hung out and had a drink with his own father. And, now, that he thought on it even more, this was probably the most meaningful time he’d ever spent with the man. And he was _dead_.

“Yeah, I’m gonna spread his ashes…” He petered off then because flushing the entire man down the toilet wasn’t a right send off even if he felt the man deserved it.

Big Mike didn’t seem to think much of the non-committal answer. He just nodded his head and slung back half his glass. “Too righ’. Too righ’. Now me, I’d have just chucked the guy down the bin, but you were always better’n all of us bastards. Glad ya got out.”

Unbidden, tears welled up as he looked shamefaced into his glass. He bit his lip hard and blinked rapidly, trying to get it under control. He felt another hand on his back right above the bruise Big Mike had left in his enthusiastic greeting and Gold just knew by the soft touch that it was Belle, who seemed to be strangely in tune to him from the beginning.

He looked up warily, but her kind face looking back at him in concern. “You ready to go?” she asked, rubbing her hand in small, soothing circles.

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m just gonna head to the loo first,” he said, hoisting the bag off the bar. Half an hour and three rounds ago, he’d have balked at leaving Belle alone with this group, but she’d proven to be stronger than he expected and they seemed to have mellowed with age. “I’ll be back in a jiffy, yeah?”

 

******

 

They stumbled out of the warm pub to the sounds of farewells and loud cheers, a blast of cool, damp air hitting him full in the face and slapping a bit of sobriety into his system. Not too much, but just enough to realize that he’d actually had a good time. How weird.

“How much of him did you do?” Belle asked, her hands stuffed in her pockets. Her hat had gone missing and Gold thought that it was probably in the possession of Norbert or someone else who liked to pick delicate pockets.

“Jus’ two baggies,” he told, slurring a bit. He pulled at her sleeve. “C’mon, got another place to go then… bed.” He dragged her to the corner before his words hit him and he turned towards her aghast. “I mean, _I’m_ going to bed, not that we… that _we’re_ going to bed, though you’re probably going to bed just not with _me_ obviously because that would be daft wouldn’t it?”

“I dunno, we _are_ married after all…” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. The tip of her tongue peeked out at the corner of her mouth as she grinned at him devilishly. Gold wondered how much she’d had to drink. He wasn’t exactly keeping track.

His spine shivered and his stomach roiled with realization that she’d been caught up in all of that nonsense. “Oh fuck I forgot about that. I’m so sorry. They just assumed--”

“It’s no big deal, Robert. They assumed and it was easier to let them keep on assuming. I get it. Stop stressing.” She poked him in the shoulder. He staggered back a bit from the amount of alcohol in his system before righting himself. She clapped her hands together like a school teacher eager to start the day. “So where to next?”

“Round the corner. There’s a spot he used to do business in.”

Her eyebrows lifted and she gave him an interested-but-not-wholly-believing-it look that nearly took his breath away.

He led her to a short alleyway that ended in a chain link fence, which guarded a dodgy looking shack leaning between the bump outs of two boarded up Victorians. Like nearly everything else he’d searched out during his trip down memory lane, Gold was surprised to find it still standing -- he half expected it to have been razed or burnt to the ground years ago and yet, like every other childhood memory, it loomed before him in all its dark and decrepit glory.

For the first time since they met, Belle hesitated. “Uh…”

Gold, already having stuffed the canvas tote through the crack in the gate, had one foot on the fence when she spoke. He looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. They were uncommonly white in the dark alley. Must be an Australian thing.

He chuckled, pulling himself up the creaking fence which wobbled and strained under his weight. “It’s probably a worse idea than taking you to the pub. You wait here and keep a lookout. I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful,” she called after him in a loud whisper.

There was a time when he was young enough and small enough to slip through the gate, and then another brief few years when he could scuttle up and over the fence with ease, but time, helped along by gravity, was not kind and he panted and heaved himself over the top before landing with a great “oomp!” and a splash.

The shack looked like it had remained unused for at least a decade, but it had always looked like one big sneeze would knock it over. And, if it still looked like the set dressing for Oliver Twist, then perhaps... He gingerly reached above the doorframe and pressed his fingers on a knobby bump just _so_. There was a bit of resistance, but, with the right amount of pressure, the knob budged and there was a heavy click as the door unlocked itself. He toed it open, wincing as the hinges groaned with disuse. He hoped that meant no one was currently using the building rather than it being a sort of poor man’s early warning system.

It was much too dark to see inside, but he only wanted the sink that used to be under the window on the right. The cracked window had been papered over with newsprint several times over the years, but the sink was still there and, hopefully, still connected to the plumbing. Malcolm used to call this shack his office, but it was mostly just a place to flop — out of sight of the authorities until he was able to find lodgings that didn’t leak over their heads. Most everyone in the old gang had squatted in it at one point or another, but Malcolm, having a child to look after, used it the most often. Gold lived here off and on while his father kept up the pretense of gainful employment. People often came to visit them here. At least that’s what Malcolm had told him and, when Gold was a little boy who still believed in his dad was the best person in the entire world, he delighted in every new face that came round before he was sent out into the alley to play, the door shut firmly in his face.

As he grew older and more disillusioned, he’d realized that his father had lied to him and he’d been dealing things that would have sent him to jail for a long, long time had he been caught. It was the first real lie he’d told his young son (which had been swiftly followed up by countless others). Later, when he’d had time to reflect on his childhood, usually with Archie present to talk him through it, Gold felt that he’d been too naive and stupid when he was little. It took Archie months to help him understand that, of course, as a child he had no way of knowing what Malcolm did was illegal and, at that, point there was no reason for young Rabbie Campbell to disbelieve his own father. That came later with experience.

Now, back in the old hut, the stench of rotting wood and mold invading his nostrils, he only had a weird sort of fondness for the place. It was one thing of his childhood he could count on always being there. If his dad had gone away for a few days, Gold knew he could always find a roof over his head here. Maybe it wasn’t very secure or even stable, but it was _there_ and that brought him a sense of warmth and consistency he hadn’t been expecting when he climbed the fence. Gold gave a small huff

He sprinkled the baggie into the sink and poured the small bottle of whisky he’d lifted from the bar after it. He didn’t even feel guilty, perhaps visiting the old haunts had corrupted him again, but he figured he’d spent enough money to cover the cost of the small bottle. IT would be no big matter to the pub should they even notice it missing.

The climb back over the fence went better than going in. He felt lighter in spirit at least, but that might have been the alcohol talking more than coming to terms with his past. Belle was just on the other side and her face lost its anxiousness as he hurled himself over with about as much grace as a blundering hippo. He slid down the last two feet then reached through the fence to retrieve the tote once more.

She beamed at him, her smile wide and ecstatic as she laughed in triumph with him.

“I’m so proud of you,” she told him, and Gold could tell she was sincere in her praise. Why it mattered to him he didn’t understand, but he swelled up a bit at her praise finding it remarkable that this woman had followed him this far.

She peered up at him from under her lashes, her face bathed in the gloomy half light of the alleyway. “I was worried you’d get lost in yourself again back there and I’d have to climb the fence to get you,” she explained, her fingers twisting into pretzels again.

Ah. Of course. “Well, it was a quick in and out job. Nothing really stressful about it.”

“What is that place?” she asked, peering into the darkness behind him.

He shrugged. “Just a place we used to stay at sometimes.”

She stepped closer to him, her mouth opening to say something, but she was interrupted by a solid-looking police officer who chose that moment to do his rounds.

“Oy! You two!”

Gold’s heart jumped into his throat as he saw the looming, dark outline behind her, blocking the alley and their exit. He swore, but before he could come up with a solid reason for being there, Belle grabbed him by the ears and pulled him down, planting her mouth firmly on his. He dropped his dad on the filthy ground, the curse muffled in his throat coming out as a low moan as the shock of her lips on his seized him up entirely. His arms flapped by his sides while her hands, now that she was sure she had his attention, moved from his ears -- which were now throbbing from being tugged -- to his hair, her fingers threading their way down until she cupped the back of his head, holding him close.

“Hold me,” she murmured against his lips. Gold gasped raggedly as her warm breath ghosted over him, the press of her soft lips against his a temptation he had no wish to lose, but he obeyed, wrapping his arms around her for the second time that night. She scooted closer, lining herself against him until he could feel all of her through their layers of clothes, his own body responding to her warm softness and the way she seemed to melt into him. His hands wandered, roaming over her back and down to her ass, squeezing the soft flesh and pulling her closer. She groaned into his mouth, stirring a fire inside him. He didn’t protest as she entwined a leg around his knee to wedge his thigh between her legs. He held himself still as she squirmed against him, moaning softly as her jerky movements pressed up against his straining erection that suddenly loomed up out of nowhere like Nessie in the loch.

The kiss turned sloppy, tongues and teeth and their heated breath combining until Gold had forgotten everything: why he was there, where he was, and what he was supposed to be doing. There was only him and Belle and how perfect she felt in his arms. Kissing her had been like trying to grab lightning, shocking and ethereal and absolutely the most amazing thing to happen to him in years.

“Hey!” the policeman called again, barging into the alley to loom over them, his hands on his hips like a school teacher. “Break it oop. G’on, break it oop!”

Gold wrenched himself away from her with a massive effort, panting as if he’d just run a marathon. He opened his eyes into slits, barely daring to look at Belle, but she seemed no better. He could tell even in the dim light of the street lamp at the end of the alley that she was flushed, her lips swollen and bruised and breathless. Her pink tongue darted out to lick at them and Gold nearly lunged for her mouth again wanting to taste the trail she’d left, but the police officer clamped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back with force.

“Nown o’ that,” he grumbled as Gold staggered backward. “Either ge’ a room or do this on someone else’s beat.”

Gold looked at Belle, flustered and confused and desperately turned on. She had her hands pressed to her cheeks, her eyes wide with shock and embarrassment even though it had been her idea to kiss. He swallowed thickly, eyes dropping to his shoes, which were muddy from the puddle he’d stepped in. Heart dropping, he felt like climbing back over the fence to sit in the old shack again. That seemed to be the best place for him.

He took a deep, shuddering breath as he picked up the tote, holding it in front of him to conceal the raging boner he was now sporting, the presence of a policeman be damned.

“Too old to be doin’ tha’ now ain’t you?” the man grumbled as he herded them back onto the sidewalk. “G’on. Ge’ a move on.” He planted himself at the mouth of the alley to make sure they didn’t try to go back in, but Gold just wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

Gold looked at him balefully before turning his attention to Belle, but she was busy studying her feet. They walked side by side towards the corner and then they stopped neither of them sure of where to go next.

“I--” he began

“Sorry--” she said at the same time.

“That was quick thinking,” he said, not knowing if he should thank her for the kissing or the getting them out of trouble. Both he assumed.

“Mmm,” she replied absently and Gold would have given his right foot to know what she was thinking right then and there. Was she regretting it? Did she enjoy it at all or was all that moaning and grabbing just bloody fantastic acting? There was no knowing without asking and he would _never_ presume to ask. Asking was too easy and led to discussions, which led to feelings, which led to truths, and that way lay destruction. It felt real to him, but then he got emotional over a hug so what did he know?

He shook his head. It seemed to be full of cobwebs and Belle and kisses and ashes and heartache and he didn’t know how much more he could take. It was too much at once. “I’ll, uh, get you a cab shall I?” he said, after clearing his throat. His voice had somehow gone all scratchy. Maybe Belle had kissed it away.

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said, dully. Then, with a slow shake of her head, “No.”

He tilted his head, owl-like, certain that he misheard her. “No?”

She raised her head and looked at him fully, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll stay with you if you don’t mind.”

“Are you… Are you sure?”

“I think I’m committed to seeing this through,” she told him, breaking into a shy smile.

“I don’t mind at all.” he took a long, calming breath. “I was going to the lake.”

“Now?” she asked and if Gold had known her better he’d have accused her of whining.

“Might. Or we could er… is there a place that’s open all night?”

“Not any place we want to be,” she replied with a short little laugh that made his pulse spark. “So the lake then?” she said, giving him another one of her looks that made him want to bring down mountains. Or, at least, drive to the lake very early on a Saturday morning.

He breathed in deeply and nodded. “The lake.”

It wasn’t until she turned towards the street that he noticed that during their impromptu make out session, he’d anointed her ass with two very distinct, very ashy handprints.

* * *

******The Cabin in the Woods**

 

Belle borrowed a car from someone who resented being woken up at four o’clock in the morning. Gold only got a glimpse of their face before the door was slammed shut again, the keys firmly in Belle’s possession.

“I didn’t get you in trouble with her did I?” Gold asked as she adjusted the seat forward until she was practically sitting against the steering wheel -- she was too short for a safer distance. Fortunately, few people would be driving at this time of the morning.

She giggled a little as she started the car. “Nope. She’s owed me for a year. I doubt this’ll be mentioned next time I see her.”

“Good friend?” he said, tearing his eyes away from her profile to look at the houses going by.

“One of the best,” Belle told him, warmly. “Now, where are we headed?”

He had thought about it over the day, mulling over his options as he tried to find the best places to put Malcolm to rest. The library had been the first place he’d gone to simply because it was the closest to his hotel and it’d just seemed fitting. It proved to be the best worst decision he’d ever made because he wound up meeting Belle, who had somehow wedged her way into his life and heart within a span of hours. She’d somehow understood that he needed a friend right then and was determined on being that friend even if she had to force him to accept her.

He had to admit, he didn’t put up a big fight.

The bar and the old shack had been spur of the moment decisions, but both of them felt right to him. Malcolm spent a lot of time in all of those places and he knew that if given a list, they would be near the top. Gold had a few more in mind, but, as the night drew to a close and his departure for Maine looming ahead of him like a beast to be faced, he wanted it all done at once and there was only one place he wanted to see again.

“Lomond.”

She glanced at him uncertainly for a moment before she put on the blinker and changed lanes, trusting that he knew what he wanted to do.

“You can say it, you know,” she told him after a few minutes of silence.

“There are a lot of things I could say,” he told her, lips quivering in mirth. “Which one shall it be?”

A faint blush graced her cheeks. “Okay, um, you can say lake.”

He looked at her in askance. “Lake.”

“Ah, no. I mean use the real word for it. The Scottish one,” she urged.

“The wha-- Oh. Uh.” He cleared his throat. “Loch. Like that?”

She smiled goofily. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

He stared at the road ahead of them, thoroughly confused. “Do you ask that from everyone?”

“Nooooo….?”

“Because you’re surrounded by people who have more authentic accents than I do. I lost most of it living overseas,” he explained. “I only retained enough to make myself seem _interesting_.”

“Yeah, but, I just like the way you say it.” She looked slightly ashamed as if he’d stumbled on her dirty secret and with the way she was blushing and how she was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth made him think he might have been onto something.

“Anything else?” he asked in a low voice, keenly aware of his accent now and wondering if he should thicken it up for her sake or if it would be too obvious that he knew that it went straight to her toes. Would it even matter if she knew that he knew?

“No,” she squeaked.

They was an awkward silence after that until Belle spoke up again. “Is this where that picture was taken? The one you showed me?”

He was grateful for the subject change, his mind was too busy weighing the pros and cons of trying his brogue on her to be of much use. “No, that was Kilmardinny… _Loch_ ,” he added cheekily.

She rolled her eyes, but she threw a lovely grin at him anyway. “Ha ha.” The sign for their exit came up and Belle followed it. “The entrance will be closed,” she warned.

Gold glanced at her inappropriate shoes. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I know where to go.”

“Are we gonna do some more trespassing?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, it’s perfectly legal I assure you.” He sat forward to peer at the treeline. “Turn out here,” he told her, pointing at the road she was to go down.

She followed his directions silently, driving slowly along the gravel road until they pulled up in front of a cozy wooden cabin situated inside a damp clearing.

“Do you know who lives here,” she whispered as she peered out the window at the house.

“I used to. It’s been empty for years.” He got out with a groan and ambled up to the porch steps lugging the rest of Malcolm with him.

Belle scrambled out after him. “Are you sure about that,” she asked hurriedly. “It may have been sold or something.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “It hasn’t,” he said firmly, selecting one and inserting it into the lock. He jiggled the handle in a certain way as he turned the key and then swung the door open. He gestured for her to go first, but she only gaped at him.

“ _Why_ do you have a cabin in a country you never visit,” she asked, suspiciously.

He jerked his head back in amusement at her sudden ire. “I inherited it from the people who used to own it.”

“Uh huh.”

It was almost funny that after all the stupid and crazy things he put her through the day before that owning a tiny little cabin on the lake was what made her doubt him. Almost.

He flipped on the lights and stepped past her into the sole living space, wiping his feet on the mat methodically. It was a bit dusty, which was to be expected as the cleaning service wasn’t due for a few more weeks yet. He hadn’t expected to visit it this trip. He hadn’t really expected to see it again to be honest, but now that he was here on familiar territory, he finally felt at home. The room was simply furnished in old, squashy furniture, a fireplace stacked with log in the middle of the outside wall. Along the back wall was a bank of windows reaching up to the ceiling, which were hidden behind a row of curtains that had been drawn against the weather. A tiny kitchen was off to the left with a row of plain crockery lined up neatly along the stack of shelves by the sink. A small kitchen table with three chairs and a hooked rug underneath was scooted next to a window, it just needed a jar of wildflowers to complete the picture. A door leading to a bedroom was just off of that, but it was closed and Gold presumed it would stay closed that visit. It was small and homey and cold, but it was miles better than waiting in the hotel room. He set Malcolm on the floor by the back door.

She followed him, her arms crossed. “How did you inherit prime real estate,” she accused.

“Same way anyone else does. Someone died.”

“And did you flush their ashes too?”

He flinched and looked away. “No. No, the Aunties were better than that. And they left instructions,” he added.

She shook her head. “Who are the Aunties?

He ran a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his head. “The thing is I don’t actually know. No one ever told me when I asked. They were always just the Aunties,” he said crouching in front of the fireplace to open the flue. He reached up onto the mantle and found a round box holding long matches and he struck one against the stone, holding it under a bit of the wood until it caught with a tiny flicker. “Should warm up in a bit.”

Belle eyed the fire almost as distrustfully as she eyed him a moment ago. “How old is that firewood?”

“Not that old,” he said. “The cabin gets rented out seasonally. It’s not as abandoned as you think.” He got up with a groan then opened up the curtains to reveal a large deck off the the back of the house. He stared out of it, thinking about the last time he’d been here and how much he missed the two women who’d sometimes taken care of him when his father couldn’t.

“So…” Belle said, sitting primly on the checkered couch. “I’ve been wondering…”

He smiled softly. He had no doubt whatsoever that she had an alphabetized list of questions for him as long as her arm. The only thing was which one would she pick first. “What about?” he asked, shucking off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. Belle shrugged out of hers and handed it to him without asking. She kicked off her shoes, sighing with relief as she wiggled her toes.

“So, your father’s last name was Campbell…”

His smile faded as he understood where this was leading.

She continued, “And your last name is Gold, so I thought well, maybe it’s your mom’s name. But at the bar they called you Rabbie Campbell. What’s the deal?”

And then Gold understood the weird sideways looks she’d been giving him all day. His last name confused her. He spread his hands out, then wiped them along his slacks, uncomfortable now. “I, ah, I changed it. After I went to America.”

She looked at him surprised. “Why?”

“Never seemed to fit, Campbell.”

“Why Gold though?”

“You know, they used to say that the streets in America were lined with gold,” he deflected.

“And you believed it?” she deadpanned.

“Not for a second. But I liked the idea.” He paused, then continued, “You’ve heard of the Japanese art of kintsugi? You take a broken bit of pottery and fix it with gold?”

She nodded. “I've seen pictures. Like the cup I made you drop, or that platter. It would have been repaired with gold.”

“Aye, that’s right. Anyway, I’d read about it and then I was lucky enough to handle a few pieces at the beginning of my apprenticeship.” He shrugged helplessly. “Something was broken,” he said, holding up his left hand. Then he held up his right, “And now it’s now fixed. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than broken. Seemed fitting.”

She huffed a tiny, amused laugh. “Mr. _Gold,_ ” she teased, her head tilted to the side. “Well, I like the story behind the name. It’s a _good_ name; you chose well.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled at her then he sat down on the other end of the sofa. “My dad introduced me to the Aunties. Didn’t say much, didn’t tell me where I was going or how long he’d be gone. Just packed me up and dropped me off with any explanation.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as he remembered. “It was weird, you know? Going from almost total neglect to a warm and caring environment such as this. And he’d do it again and again, just tell me to pack, steal a car, and here I’d be for who knows how long. The Aunties took me in every time, no questions asked. I used to think they were my mum’s relations, but they wouldn’t say. Just kept me and fed me and loved me and let me run around the woods all I wanted. They taught me how to read, you know. I hated going back to the city. Hated the constant state of hunger and fear. I kept hoping that Malcolm would drop me off and then forget to come back…” he trailed off, staring at his hands between his knees.  “They were my real family.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, remembering.

“Ada was the first to go. Cancer -- about nine years ago. Then Elmira soon after. I don’t think she had the heart to go on without Ada. I haven’t been back to Scotland since.”

“They were sisters?” she asked quietly.

“No, not sisters.” He grinned up at her, wickedly. “I was pretty much their only child.”

She grinned back at him. “So what did they do, your Aunties?”

“They spun. Wool,” he clarified at her puzzled expression. “The wheel is in the other room.”

“And did they teach you?” she asked, settling to face him with her arm on the top of the couch. She rest her head against her hand, staring at him with sleepy eyes.

“They did. I was terrible at it. But they didn’t say. They were very kind about it. Seemed a waste of wool to me. They did loads of things, actually. Elmira had a regular column with a few newspapers writing about gardening and the countryside around the loch. Ada was a school teacher once a long, long time ago.”

“They sound lovely,” she said, her voice getting a bit foggy from exhaustion.

“They were.” They would have adored Belle he thought as he watched her drift off to sleep, his own slumber not long behind.

He awoke with a snort, eyes wide and neck stiff from the awkward angle. He snuffled a bit then looked over at Belle, who was curled up awkwardly on her side of the couch. He got up with a groan and stretched before twitching the curtains aside, looking out of the window. The sky was just beginning to lighten now -- he could just begin to see the trees, still inky black shadows among the deep blue of the morning sky. It was nearly time.

Gold retrieved the box of ashes from the bag and opened the back door, slipping out into the chilly air as silently as he could. He would wait until the sunrise then put Malcolm to rest, both in the past and the present.

The deck wandered from the back forming a sort of raised walkway to the lake. He swam from that spot a lot as a child -- happy memories to help tide him over the bad days when he was with his dad. A part of him didn’t think it was right, sending Malcolm off here in the only place he’d been happy, but he knew it would be nice to make a new memory, sharing this happy place for this one last time. Gold deserved that much. The boards squeaked under his feet, but it was light enough now to see his way without a torch to guide him. Once he reached the end, he sat down, placing the box next to him and waited for the sunrise with his father.

He was only out there for minutes when he heard the padding of bare feet behind him. He didn’t turn around, just let Belle come sit beside him. She’s gone rummaging in the short time he’d been gone and had found a blanket which she draped over his shoulders. Then she joined him underneath it, shivering in the damp morning air.

It was still for a long while, nothing but the splish of a fish jumping to break the silence then Belle’s voice, sweet and hesitant, quietly spoke. “I lost my mom when I was about four. I remember bits and pieces of her, but not all that much. My dad took it… hard. Losing mum destroyed a part of him. I think he snapped. Kept watch over me all the time. _All_ the time. I couldn’t do anything without him being there. I mean _anything_ . School outings, hanging out with my friends, dates -- forget it. He had to control everything, which I never got, you know? Mum had _cancer_ and she died. It’s not like she went out and went BASE jumping. But, you know, that didn’t matter to Dad. He just needed to control something. Which was just me. It got to the point where I didn’t even want any of my friends over because I had literally no privacy and I couldn’t really explain to my friends why my room didn’t have a door you know? Or why there was keylogging software loaded on my computer. Timed me in the bathroom even,” she said with a bitter chuckle. “That was a real treat. So I read -- a _lot_ . I mean if I wasn’t allowed out then I could at least read about things. My favorites were adventure stories. You know, young girl traveling alone, meeting all sorts of creatures and vanquishing an army, that sort of thing. But then even that became too much to bear. I was so tired of just reading and never doing, you know? Eventually, I had to escape. I knew if I stayed he wouldn’t allow me to have my own life no matter how old I was. One day I packed up my bags and left in the middle of the night. Haven’t seen him since.”

She looked up at him then, her lips pressed into a thin line as she waited for judgement, but he had none to give her. Who was he to judge? He’d run away for less. At least when he grew up he had control over his life.

“Strange how our dads took the opposite view of parenting and we both wound up running as soon as we could,” he said, softly. “Makes you wonder what normal is doesn’t it?”

She laughed a little, ducking her head as she bumped him in the shoulder. Gold marveled at that.

“I think I’d know normal if I saw it,” she said, wryly.

Gold agreed with her. Normal was pretty subjective anyway. “How long has it been since you’ve been back?” he asked, wondering how old she was now that it occurred to him to think of it. She didn’t look more than thirty at the oldest and he’d have guessed twenty-five at the least. A small part of him was hoping she was on the older end of that scale, though he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance with someone like Belle. Not him.

She looked sheepish. “Well, I was just there last December, but I never told my dad. I haven’t seen him in about eight years. Pretty bad isn’t it?”

“No worse than me, I guess.”

“How old were you when you…” She made a roundabout gesture with her hand.

“I left Glasgow when I was sixteen, eventually made my way to the States. Not even the Aunties could help me by then..”

She waited for him to finished, but he wasn’t going to give up that information without her asking. And then he could ask her. It was only fair.

But she didn’t ask, just leaned against him and watched the sunlight break up the darkness around them.

When the sun rose up over the treeline, Gold sighed heavily and scooted the box closer. It was time.

He didn’t know what to say as he carefully sprinkled Malcolm’s ashes into the lake. The usual platitudes didn’t fit the circumstance. He had nothing good to say about the man. No parting words to send him off. Everything he needed to say to Malcolm had been said during their last row when Elmira died. The only lasting good Malcolm had done was to bring him here, right here at this time.

“It wasn’t all bad,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “I had the Aunties. That was… that was good.”

“I’d have loved it here,” Belle agreed.

He watched as the water rippled towards the shore, the rings a bit grimier than they were before, but it would heal as all things did with time.

“There’s going to be a dead fish floating under the dock tomorrow,” he deadpanned. “I just know it.”

Belle burst into a fit of giggles, slapping him on the arm with the back of her hand. He started laughing himself as she told him how awful he was.

She wasn’t wrong.

At last, the sun fully up and their bellies reminding them that it had been hours since they last ate, Gold helped her up to her feet, enjoying how much tinier she was without her heels. He had to admit, he was impressed with how well she kept up the entire night after putting in a full day at work. He’d have broken an ankle within five minutes.

She looked up at him, her face practically aglow in the warm sun and he very much wanted to kiss her right there. She’d probably let him. They both had an emotional journey in the short time since they’d met -- less than twenty-four hours ago. People did crazy things when their feelings were sanded raw. Her eyes flickered to his mouth then back up to his eyes, wonderingly and he knew then that if he kissed her, truly kissed her without the excuse of faking it for a policeman, then he wouldn’t be able to leave and he couldn’t do that -- to either of them. He gave her a pained smile as he stepped back, holding her hands in his. He squeezed them gently then let go.

He gazed out onto the lake, the sparkling sunlight bouncing off the placid lake nearly blinding him at this angle. He then looked back at her, marveling at how crisply blue her eyes looked in the morning light. How sweetly pink her lips were and how they curled up in the corners. Her hair shone the color of chestnuts and now he knew just how soft those curls were. She was beautiful.

And perfect.

“It’s not so much that the people don’t want a library,” he told her, answering a question she asked hours ago in Malcolm's flat. “We just can’t afford to have one. Its difficult to entice people to move to our tiny town. We’re a small fishing village really. Fishing and the mill. We get a bit of tourist trade in the summer and again when the leaf peepers come through but ten months out of the year it’s just us. We can’t keep a librarian because we can’t afford to pay a them enough to entice them to Backwater USA. We hoped someone would fall in love with the town, but so far it’s unlovable. I could have it open in a week probably, but with no one to work it…” He spread his hands out, as if to say ‘there you go’.

She stared at him in confusion before blinking it away. “You’re talking about more than just the library aren’t you? You mean yourself. You think you’re unlovable, too.” She shook her head in disbelief.

He considered that for a moment then nodded shortly, lips pressed tight. Belle already knew everything about him, why try to hide?

“What’s this crazy town called?” she asked with palpable curiosity.

He gave her a half smile. “Storybrooke. Maine.”

“That sounds adorable,” she replied, wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah, someone was ambitious weren’t they?”

“So, why do you live there?”

He huffed a little laugh. “It’s a quiet place and people leave me alone.”

Sometimes it really was that simple.

 

******

 

They drove to his hotel in silence, each of them dreading the time when they had to part. The past day didn’t seem real. How could he have latched on to one person so quickly? How did she make herself absolutely indispensable in such a short amount of time? It was like magic. But, like all magic, there was a price and saying goodbye was his to pay.

“Is there any reason why you can’t come back?” she asked quietly once they pulled up to the door. “You have that beautiful cabin. And a friendly face to welcome you back,” she added with a nudge.

He looked at her, catching her eyes in one heart stopping moment before shyly glancing away. “I, erhm, don’t know.”

She ducked her head under so she could see his face. “Not even for a visit?”

“Visits can be nice,” he said, his lips quirking up in a smile.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and expressive. There may as well have been a neon sign over her head in large letters blinking DO NOT DESERVE at him. Some things were too entrenched for Archie to help him with. Gold suspected that this was one of them.

“Listen, Belle,” he began, heart suddenly lodged in his throat. “I want to thank you for yesterday. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you to ground me. I thought I was fine, but it’s obvious that I’m not. Might still be in Malcolm’s flat if you hadn’t been there.”

She smiled kindly at him and cupped his cheeks with her hands. “I’m glad I met you,” she told hoarsely before pressing her lips on his in one last, sweet kiss, lingering for a moment as if savoring it.

Gold’s never wanted it to end, but the doorman came up at that moment tapping on the window frame.

“Valet?”

Gold pulled away, reluctantly, blinking rapidly before glaring at the unwitting young man who’d interrupted them. Belle wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, giving him a rueful smile as he took a deep breath before climbing out of the car. He left the canvas bag on the seat.

She had both hands on the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, staring blankly at the dash. Gold hesitated, half turned towards the hotel, before he ducked back down, poking his head in the open window. “Also, I’m sorry about the mess in your library.”

Her mouth twisted in a sad smile. “Believe it or not, I’m not.”

He watched her pull out and, signalling, change lanes to return the car back to her friend, the one who owed her many favors. Maybe that was the trick to Belle. Maybe she went about the world collecting debts from people and then suddenly, in the middle of the night, you’d find her standing on your doorstep demanding payment. He wondered if she might seek him out one day to get what he owed.

God he hoped so.

* * *

******Storybrooke, Maine**

 

Gold sat in the back of his shop staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. He had a billion things to do. Invoices, inventory, follow up on a shipment of auction items that he’d acquired, _dusting._ He didn’t feel like doing any of that. He should make an appointment with Archie to go over… everything. All of it. Malcolm, his father’s friends, the ashes. Belle.

It’s been three weeks and he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was getting unhealthy.

He pulled out his phone from his pocket and opened it, smiling softly. He didn’t get one picture of her other than a blurry bit of the side of her face taken by accident when they were half drunk a the bar. Her smile was wide as she laughed at someone just off screen, and her blue eyes open and honest, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes in a candid moment.

It was all he had as evidence that Belle happened. That she existed and that she cared for him. Robert Gold, son of Malcolm Campbell who was the worst shit that ever walked the streets of Glasgow. She knew it all and she still liked him. He wished he got her phone number. He should have, but everything happened so quickly and she stayed by his side so faithfully that it never occurred to him until the chance was lost.

He could always call the library. He doubted Belle would mind if he called her at work. Or he could email her? Or both. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Not again. Chance led him to Belle, but he had to take the reins at some point.

Or... He looked at the desk calendar. Or he could visit? Malcolm was gone. The old gang had no power over him any more. He could take a week off and… spend it following her around like a lovesick puppy. Maybe invite her to the cabin where he could spend his time kissing her until her toes curled.

Oh god, no. No, he couldn’t do that. Surely whatever spell that had been woven around them during that one magical day had been broken. She’d think of him fondly probably, but never in the same way he thought about her.  He’d write. Email her at work and hope she responded with her private email and he could carefully craft the things he wanted to say to her. Things like “I’ve only known you for ten hours and seventeen minutes and I think I love you” and “I don’t know why I left.”

He could go back. Permanently. There was nothing tying him down here in Maine and he could work anywhere. His laptop sat nearby on the worktop and he tugged it over, pulling up a realtor’s site in Glasgow. It wouldn’t hurt to look. To pursue all options as it were.

He had three promising houses saved when the bell on his door rang followed by the tip tapping of heels on the wooden floor. He frowned. No one in town wore heels except the mayor and he just wasn’t in the mood to deal with Regina at the moment. Still. He got up, feeling achy and restless, sliding his phone back in his pocket. Glasgow would have to wait for another ten minutes.

“What is it, Regina,” he called out wearily as he walked through the velvet curtains that separated the shop from the storage. “I have pressing busi-- Belle!” He startled, heart beating a mile a minute. It wasn’t possible that she was here in his shop. Things this good didn’t happen to him. Not twice in a row. His eyes roved over her, from her heels to the smart dress she wore that brought out the wonderful blue of her eyes to her hair which curled around her face delicately.

The air whooshed out of him.  

She smirked at him, eyeing his face with exacting scrutiny. “Who’s Regina,” she asked with a pursed mouth, but he could see by her sparkling eyes that she was teasing him.

“The mayor,” he explained absently as he hurried out from the counter. “Belle! Wha--”

“Ah, so that’s who I see about this?” she interrupted, pulling out a sheet of paper from her purse.

He took it from her and glanced over it with wondering eyes, barely comprehending the words on it. “This is the last want ad for a librarian we sent out. Where’d you even dig this up, it’s years old.”

The smirk widened. “Well, I figured, you made a mess of my work, It’s time I made a mess of yours.”

He was blissfully horrified that she simply packed up and walked out. Belle was beautiful, strong, brave, and absolutely terrifying. Why would she do that? His heart lurched a the thought that she did it for him. But he couldn’t let himself think that. She was here. She was here and smiling at him and with time, perhaps there would be more but for now… “So you just _left_?” he asked conveniently forgetting that he was in the process of doing the same. Good thing they didn’t miss each other in the crossing.

“I’ve done it before,” she reminded him, with a roll of her eyes. “Besides,” she said, looking at him earnestly as she put her arms around his neck. Even in her heels she had to stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “I’ve been to a lot of towns for my work. But none of them -- _nothing_ felt like home until I met you.”

Gold held her close, burying his face against her neck. "I feel the same, Belle. You are where my home is."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)


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